I am by no means an expert at this. Getting published, I mean. I've only been writing for about a year professionally, but, full disclosure, I wrote fan-fiction for the various games I played for 19 years. But since June of 2014, I have set my nose to the grindstone and been working at writing original fiction in the forms of a novel and (as of now) nine short stories.

I host a writers group of friends with like-minded novel aspirations on Fridays. One of them asked how I got published. So I wrote a list, I thought it was pretty good, so I figured I'd share it here. As I said, I am not an expert, and I don't want to think I am touting my word as gospel. I've only got one story in the pipeline, and I'm not John Scalzi or Margaret Atwood. I'm just sharing what I did to reach a goal, a goal a lot of writers want, and how I'm not stopping.

I head to Gambier, OH on Saturday for a week-long Writers Workshop hosted by The Kenyon Review. Out of that week-long workshop, six more stories will emerge, or at least the beginnings of them. I can't wait.

So! The list (some things apply to speculative fiction):

Write as much as you can. It doesn’t have to be every day, but get on a schedule and stick to it. Even if you’re editing, think about how each scene could improve, and do it. Never tell yourself it’s too much work.

Read a novel a month. Some novels might take longer, such as with me and 1984. But don’t just read for pleasure, dissect the book. Think about what is being done well, and what you would do differently. Learn from what you’re reading. You’ll learn different things from different writers and genres. As with all things, if you’re not enjoying the book, stop reading it and move on to the next one.

Write a short story every two months. Write it from beginning to middle to end, and then edit it for publication. Send it off using Ralan.com as a guide for who might be taking something of that genre. Start big, and then go small. No need to short-sell yourself.

Read books on writing between novels. On Writing by Stephen King. The Kick-Ass Writer by Chuck Wendig. And Self-Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne & Dave King. Those are three that I found extremely helpful. I am sure there are others out there as well, I just haven’t read them yet.

Re-read your book constantly. If you’ve taken time off to write a short story or read a book, re-read your entire book or story before you add more or go back to edit it. You want your voice and the voices of your characters to be consistent. This is incredibly important after you’ve read a book on writing. You have to see where you can apply what you’ve learned when it's time to edit.

After receiving rejections from literary magazines, re-work your short stories, and send them out again. Use Ralan.com again, and see where they might fit.

Go to conferences to learn, not to see what you’re doing right. Take notes on what people say, and while you’re doing that, take notes on how you can apply it to what you’re doing. You may find you learn more the longer you’ve been at this, because you have more of a context.

Read blogs by writers. Find writers you admire from the books you’ve been reading, Google them, and then favorite or subscribe to their blogs. Some of them write about writing, others just write about their life. Either way, you get a glimpse into how writers live their lives and their craft in the Holy Shit I’m Doing This world.

Apply what you’ve learned to what you’re doing. Because no one knows everything, and smart people are the first to know that they have a lot to learn from life and experiences. Take everything that you’ve picked up from reading, writing, conferences, and living, and apply it to your novels, short stories, and anything else. It’s amazing how much your writing will improve.

Still write short stories and send them out.

Keep to that schedule. No one gets better at what they do by not doing it.

Keep reading. It’s relaxing, it opens your brain, and it shows you how many different people have become successful with completely different styles. But when you write anything, use your voice to apply what you’ve learned from what you've been reading. Never copy, never mimic, always be yourself.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

But first, decide: Are you doing this because you can? Or because you want nothing more than to write? If it’s the former, you might want to ignore points 1-14 until you want the latter. Writing is hard work, being a writer is harder work. And if you're doing this out of love, you'll want one and it'll eventually lead to the other.

Again, I am not an expert. I'm only putting this up there to show the work I did which lead to my first publication. It may not work for you, it may not work for anyone. But point 15 is important. As with social work, writing is a labor of love. You don't go into it without really wanting it and having a burning need to tell stories. Every character created, every conflict dreamed, is borne from your brain onto the page because you willed it to be there. So don't scrimp. Make each thing the best you can.

The fight was hot, wet, and over in an instant, thanks to the knife. Jona’s hands were still slick with blood and sweat when she started walking, leaving Justin’s body to bleed out on the side of the road. Whoever was out there would find him first, and his corpse might buy her another ten minutes. Remorse wasn’t the word for what she felt, it had been months since she’d even considered emotions like that. Life had been broken into simpler elements, like survival of the fittest.

And she was. Tonight, she’d still be breathing. Her brother, however, would not.

The audience rose one more time to show their appreciation for Mad Martin’s tricks. Madison Square Garden was full, not a seat in the house, and the magician on stage was soaking up every bit of praise the audience could dole out. He turned with a flourish, raising his arms as a large screen dropped down from above.

“Behold! My greatest trick, the most bold and daring that I have ever taken on! And you, yes all of you, will be a part of it tonight!” He turned back to the audience as a countdown started from ten, and Lovely Luna walked off stage, waving and blowing kisses as she went. “We all wonder what it would be like to rule the world, don’t we? I have decided to take the ultimate step and do just that. I have mastered the art of controlling electricity, conjuring food, and creating water, as you have all seen here tonight! In effect, I am my own messiah! Which is why I don’t believe I need any of you any longer.”

The audience looked at one another, confused.

“Don’t bother leaving. Your card is already punched,” Mad Martin said, the countdown already at three. “We may as well watch my handiwork, right? You see, I’ve been poisoning the world’s water supply during my rise to stardom, and I’ve calculated it all to precisely now. Tonight is the night where the poison has reached lethality, not only for you, here, but for the entire world!”

The countdown hit zero, and footage of an outdoor concert came on screen.

The audience watched in horror as the crowd, who were once a dancing and writhing mass, fell over on top of each other, like a dominoes game gone to hell.

“Perfect, isn’t it?” Mad Martin said, laughing. The screen turned to a scene from downtown Denver, where crowds of people were lying dead on the sidewalk, and the streets were clogged with recent automobile accidents.

Mad Martin moved over to his conjured meal and sat down, starting to cut at a piece of chicken as the screen flickered again, moving east across the United States. The audience watched the screen in silence. Now, it showed the El in Chicago, off its track, dangling over a wreck of dead commuters. Then, Atlanta’s freeway system appearing like a scene from a disaster film, with smoke and fire rising every hundred feet.

“Which brings us to right here,” Mad Martin said, taking a sip of conjured water. He turned to the audience. “You all have ten seconds to live. Make good use of your time.”

There was a flurry of activity. Cell phones flew out of pockets. Couples threw themselves at each other. Others just sat and cried. Ten seconds is not a long time to settle life’s affairs, and before anyone had said their goodbyes, they were all dead in their seats.

Mad Martin sat back down to eat and watch his masterpiece. Tourists and employees of the Tower of London, lying on the cobblestones. Men, women, and children, piled on top of each other in front of the Mona Lisa. The Red Square covered in corpses dressed against the cold. The path to the Taj-Mahal littered with lifeless bodies.

He smiled as the screen showed images of Beijing, of Tokyo, of Sydney, and moved on to more cities over the globe, if only for his sense of completion. Mad Martin sat and marveled at each piece of footage, more pleased with his work as views of each city passed on to the next. It was the ultimate in high entertainment.

When he finished his dinner, he clapped his hands twice. “Luna! Take my plate, please!”

But she did not come. It would have been a most magical of magic tricks for Luna to fetch his plate, as she’d been murdered along with the rest. Mad Martin clapped his hands again, less patient this time, but still no Luna. She was lying on her side, breathless and cold to the touch, backstage.

He did not have a way to un-conjure his food and was unaccustomed cleaning up after himself. So, Mad Martin did what any other spoiled child would do upon not getting what they want: he smashed the dishes and everything else on the table.

His plan was not so well-thought-out after all. He thought he’d accounted for everything, but he’d forgotten one important thing. Being Mad Martin, and the world’s sole ruler, he’d need servants. His loyal servants were all dead, and he’d ensured there was no one left alive to take their place. He did the only thing left to do, he looked at the mess and started to cry.

He was unfamiliar with the sensation, being a man who’d always got everything he ever asked for. He turned away from the carnage of his dinner and walked to the edge of the stage, looking out at the carnage of the concert hall. He wanted his mother. She would have been so proud of him, but she, too, was dead. Likely in her bed at the nursing home he put her in ten years ago.

Mad Martin pulled out his cell phone, staring at this now useless piece of technology. He looked at its black and lonely screen, the waterproof case, the crack in the glass from throwing it one too many times. He held it in his hand, thinking about throwing it again, when it rang. He looked at it as it continued to ring, an incoming call from a blocked number. How could someone be calling him? Hadn’t he accounted for everything? He’d been so careful, ensuring the exact doses of the poison. His hand was shaking as he answered the call and put the phone to his ear.